


Oh, How He Makes Me Want To Learn

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Domestic, First Time, Human!Castiel - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the not-Apocalypse, Cas wakes up human. Dean thinks he got shafted, but Cas isn't so sure--at least until he stops being able to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, How He Makes Me Want To Learn

I wait until I know he’s sleeping, until I can hear him breathe over the sound of my own heart. Then I rise, more shadow than sound, and find my way downstairs.

It's cold here. Almost icy. 

It will be winter soon. I should ask Dean if there are any preparations that need to be made.

Wood to be chopped, or something. Additional blankets to be acquired.

My knowledge of cold is, I admit, somewhat limited. Much less how to defend one’s self against it.

How strange it will be, soon, to watch the snow fall from below.

I pull my sweater tight against my chest and prod the fire. Encourage the embers to burn a little brighter now. Just for me.

Another skill newly acquired.

There’s much about being human that I still find confounding. Not the actions themselves, so much as the reasons behind them. The _why_ s. 

“What do you mean _why”_? Dean will huff. “Because. That’s the way you do it, is why. Jesus, Cas. Trust me. I gotta little more practice at the human thing than you, you know.”

“True,” I will say. “But these rituals, these ways of doing—do you not ever wish to know why they are so?” 

“Dude. Just take out the damn garbage already. We can debate the finer points of drawstring bags later.”

What I have learned—what Dean will not admit—is that all of these traditions are invented. There is, in fact, no human law which demands that the garbage be “taken out” directly after the conclusion of the evening meal, whether the receptacle is full or not. Nor is there an edict that demands the application of minty paste to one’s teeth directly before and after sleep.

“Hey, you wanna wake up with your mouth full of dead squirrel, be my guest. But if I were you, I’d brush.”

I rolled my eyes at him in the mirror. “You are exaggerating, Dean.” 

He made a face and waggled the brush in front of my nose. “I’m the one that has to deal with your sorry ass first thing. And your third-degree morning breath. So just brush your damn teeth and go to bed already.”

I sighed and snatched the brush from his fingers. 

He forgot to tell me not to swallow.

Here, now, I fold myself onto the couch and tuck an ancient afghan around my legs. Focus on the fire.

I am not sleeping. That is, I have found that I cannot.

It is—vexing. 

At best, these quiet hours on my own afford me time to reflect.

At worst, they make room for me to remember.

**

When the dust settled, I was alive.

Bobby was dead. And Adam. Michael and Lucifer, too.

But I was alive.

And so was Dean. 

It was strange.

I fell to the ground as the Pit screamed shut, felt Jimmy's knees split in the dirt, and I realized:

Oh.

I was alive. But Jimmy was not. 

He was gone. And my Grace along with him.

It was like a weight had been lifted, something pulled full force from my chest, my heart, and I—

I screamed. Tried to fill the absence with the sound of my own voice, but even that was gone. I had only a throat with which to cry and I choked on its limitations. Wailed something less than myself. 

I heard Dean calling my name, felt him pull me to my feet.

“Cas?” he said again. Urgent. His fingers hard on my arm. “Buddy? You ok?”

“Um,” I said, blood thick over my tongue. “No.”

And then, Dean told me later, on the first day that I awakened: I fainted.

“Cold cocked it right into the grass,” he said, dabbing at my forehead with a cloth. “It’s a wonder you didn’t break your goddamn face.”

I tried to smile, but it hurt.

“Shh,” he crooned, which was absurd, as I’d not said a word. “Cas. ‘S ok. Go back to sleep. I gotcha.”

He pressed wet blue into my eyes, soft, and I slept.

We buried Bobby in that field in Kansas.

Well, Dean did. I was, as he said, out for the count.

He built a pyre amongst the gravestones, he told me. Kissed Bobby's bloody forehead and struck a match.

For Adam? I think he said a prayer. There was nothing left to burn.

I remembered none of this. None at all. For a long time, I only recalled waking here, in Bobby’s house—our house—buried under blankets and aching. So much pain. Woke to the slope of Dean’s fingers on my hand, an uneasy spider that did not rest.

“It hurts,” I told him. “Being human. Does it always feel like this?”

He grinned and handed me a mug of something salty. “Only when you’ve got a shiner, a busted-up knee, and a couple of bruised ribs. So, no. Not always.”

I licked into the cup, tentative, and it was not pleasant.

“Ugh,” I groaned. “Dean. I don’t want this.”

He shot up from his chair and loomed over me, glowering. “Tough. You gotta eat. Now, you either drink your soup like a good boy or I hold you down and pour it down your damn throat.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I gritted, or tried to. I was somewhat less menacing in flannel and cotton than I was in wings and a coat.

He gave me this evil little smile. “Oh, you just fucking try me, sunshine.”

We glared at each other for a long moment.

I lost.

“There,” he said, as I lifted my spoon. “That’s not so hard, right?”

“Fuck off,” I said, which only made him laugh.

“Aw, you’re so cute when you’re pissed,” he sang, ruffling my hair.

“I will injure you,” I scowled, jabbing him with the spoon.

To be clear: I found it difficult to live up to the name of “patient.”

“Why are you feeding me this?” I asked. “I was not aware that water, vegetables, and poultry possessed any particular healing powers.”

Dean snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Dude. You’re sick and in bed. Ipso facto: you get chicken soup.”

“But why?” I persisted.

“Because it’s tradition, ok?”

I opened my mouth.

“Because I said so, Cas!” he snapped. “How’s that? Because I fucking _said_.”

I shook my head and turned my attention to the noodles. They were much more pleasant than the carrots.

When I finally freed myself of Dean’s effective—if incredibly annoying—medical care, I found that almost two weeks had passed.

“You know, since the not-Apocalypse,” Dean said over his shoulder.

I laughed. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

Dean turned and pointed his spatula towards me, towards the table. “It was either that or the Royal Unrumble, dude, and that’s kind of a narrow joke, you know?”

“No,” I said, confused. “I don’t.”

He shook his head, smiling. “Like I said. And it’s not like we get to name it anyway. That’s Chuck’s department, not ours.”

“Oh,” I said. A bell inside my head. “Chuck. He’s alright?”

Dean looked startled. “Um, yeah,” he said, flipping back to the stove. “He’s fine.”

“Oh,” I repeated. “I see. That is—that’s good, Dean.”

His back rippled with something he did not wish to say. And for a moment, he looked like his old self, the one saddled with battles and war plans that were not his own. And I realized, suddenly, how young he’d seemed to me since I’d awakened. Young, with no more weight to carry. How young he really was.

I shuffled to the refrigerator. Caught Dean’s eye as I struggled with the handle. He smiled at me, warm and solid, and I thought how well it wore on him, the knowledge that there were no more battles left to fight.

He had suffered losses, yes. A man who’d been his father. A brother he’d never known. 

And—

And—

“Dean,” I said, breath punched from my chest. “God. Dean. Where’s Sam?”

My hands slipped on the sink and I fell, pitched over to the floor. Swallowed by panic and rage and fear. A knife between my ribs, an angel blade slicing up my Grace. No. My fist on the blade, driving it in, carving another Grace in two.

“Dean,” I choked. I wept. “Dean. What have I done?”

He pulled me from the floor easy, as if I were a child. Held me to his chest until I could stand. Could breathe more than once without gasping.

“Shh,” he rasped in my ear. “Take it easy. You’re gonna hurt yourself again. Just relax.”

I shut my eyes tight and drove my face into his shoulder. Tried to push those memories, that sick weight in my gut, back where they belonged. Oblivion.

“You did what you had to,” he said, finally. His heart pounding into my chest, louder than my own. “You saved the world, Cas. And those sons-of-bitches in Heaven, too. And look how they repaid you, huh?”

“But I,” I sobbed, words swimming in tears. “I killed Sam. Dean. I killed him.”

He tightened under my hands, his fingers on my waist digging. Pinching. “Like I said. You did what you had to do. What he wanted. You wasted Lucifer, man. The big kahuna.”

“And Sam.”

He sighed, and I could hear that he was crying. “Yeah. But it’s what he wanted. He asked you to do it. Don’t you remember?”

“No. No. I do not.”

He lifted his head up. Pushed me back until our eyes met. Wet.

“Ok, then. So trust me, all right? I was there. Saw the whole damn thing. And you did good, Cas. You did. You kept Sammy out of the Pit, Lucifer from beatin’ up Michael. The world from fire and disease and death.” He paused. “Well, you know what I mean.” He shoved a hand through my hair and held on. “Somebody had to do it, dude. Stop Luci. I’m just glad it was you.”

He helped me back to bed, after that. I slept, heavy and full, and my dreams kept most of the memories away, at bay, except for a flash of silver and the deep, unsettled brown of Sam’s eyes. 

“Thank you,” he’d whispered. “Cas. Thanks.”

**

“So,” Dean said, later. Leaning down into the fire. “You ganked him and then something happened. I dunno—some flash of holy host or something. Big white light and the sound. Jesus. Like your voice on steroids, all the way up to 11.”

I frowned. “11?”

He chuckled and stabbed purposefully at a recalcitrant log. “What I mean is, it was fucking loud. I think I blacked out.” The wood caught and he stood, satisfied. “And when I woke up, Sam—his body—was gone. Pit was shut. And there you were.”

“And Bobby,” I said. “Bobby, too.”

He huffed, a little laugh that slid into a sigh. “Yeah. But he was dead before the white out.”

“Oh,” I said, digging back into the cushions. “I see.”

He flopped down beside me and arched his shoulders. “Michael got ‘em, Cas. Nothing you coulda done.”

He patted me on the arm, which was strangely reassuring.

“So. Flash bang, bunch a noise, there you are. But no Grace. No more angel left inside.” 

“How did you know?” I asked, leaning into the light. “That it was gone?”

He grimaced. “I didn’t. You did. You opened your eyes and screamed bloody murder.” He shuddered. “It was like they’d ripped you apart from the inside, the way you yelled. Your face—”

I considered this. Was grateful that I did not remember.

“They probably had,” I said, after a time. “Ripped me apart. I’m surprised they didn’t kill me outright.”

He scowled and reached out for me again. “That how they do things up there, Cas? You saved the fucking world, cleaned up their goddamn mess of prophecy bullshit, and what do they do? Rip off your wings. Steal your Grace.” He bared his teeth. “Bastards. That’s no way to treat family.”

I shrugged. This part of the story I could understand. “This way, Dean, I am no longer a threat. If I am, as you say, the angel who slew Lucifer, who stopped God’s will from coming to pass, I am, at best, a rogue agent in the ranks, don’t you think?” I smiled, which seemed to him incongruous, I think. “As for why they left me alive, gave me this vessel as my own—perhaps there are some who would see that as its own kind of reward.”

“What, mortality? A chance to run around with us idiots for a few decades? I dunno, Cas. I still think you got shafted.”

I laughed. It felt good to do so. Even better to see him smile.

“Well. It’s a matter of perspective, I suppose.”

He snorted and hauled himself off the couch. Held his hand out to help me rise. “Whatever. You got hosed.” He caught my hands and I swayed, a little. Under his gaze. “But hell. I’m glad to have you around.”

“Oh,” I said, my cheeks hot. From the fire, no doubt. “Yes. I’m glad to be here.”

And that night, it was the first. The first in which I could not sleep.

I folded myself back into quilts familiar, found the pillow of which I was most fond and closed my eyes. Listened to Dean shuffle around, making himself ready. Heard the mattress sigh in the next room as he settled. Listened to his breathing deepen and age into snores.

An hour passed. Two. But still, no sleep would come, no matter how hard I tried.

It was terrifying, for I had no idea what I was doing wrong. It was as though my body had forgotten how to rest; and I did not know it, my body, well enough to remind it how.

I lay awake and watched the darkness pass, and when it was light again, I slept.

The next night, it was the same. And the night after. And again, until I could not stand it any longer, being awake in my bed. Listening to Dean dream.

So I made my own kind of tradition: this one. 

I wait until I know he is asleep, until I can hear him breathe over the sound of my own heart. Then I rise, more shadow that sound, and find my way down the stairs.

Here, where I can focus on the fire and wait for the night to wane.

Yes. This is better. Better to be watchful rather than to wait.

**

I hear him before I see, his face lost in the shadows in the hall.

“Cas. You know what time it is?”

“Why?” I say, snide. “Is there someplace you need me to be?”

He huffs and comes into the light, dressed for sleep. Flannel and cotton all.

“No. Just wonderin' why you're still up. You seemed like you needed to rest.”

“Oh,” I grit. “No. I simply did not wish to spend any additional time in your presence this evening.”

“Damn,” he laughs. “Cas. Tell me how you really feel.”

I take him at his word. “I'm tired, Dean.”

He looks down at me and smiles. “'Cause you need to be sleeping. ‘Least upstairs in your freaking bed. Where it's, you know. Warm.”

I sigh. Look back at the fire. “I'm afraid to.”

This surprises him. He tilts his head. Squints.

“What are you afraid of, exactly?”

“It's that—what if I commit to sleep, but it doesn't come?“

“Then you'll turn the light on and, I dunno, read or count sheep or something until you get sleepy again. Come on. 'S not rocket science here, man.”

I make a frustrated sound, reaching for words that will not come.

“I understand the basic mechanics of sleep. I am not a child. But when I put my vessel—myself—between the folds of the thing you call a bed and close my eyes and will this body to do what it must, what it knows very well how to do, and yet it does not, refuses to do it, in fact, that is a source of great anxiety for me. So trust me when I say that it's easier if I do not even try.”

He stares at me and frowns and it is evident he has no idea what I’m talking about.

Some things, at least, have not changed.

So I close my eyes and wave him away. Ask for peace and quiet, at least, if I cannot have sleep.

“Dean. Never mind. I’m sorry, I—”

Language fails me again, and this time, I give up. God help me. I am tired.

He sighs, heavy frustrated.

“No, Cas. Don't be sorry. It's just that—I’m not sure I should—“

He laughs a little, which puzzles me, and I look up.

He's smiling, yes, but in that way that means its opposite. He catches his neck in his hand and sighs again, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Can I—?” he asks, nodding at the space beside me.

“Yes. Of course.”

He snorts as he settles down, snagging much of the blanket under his knees.

We sit for a moment in silence. The clock. The crickets. The cars on the road beyond.

Silence.

“Look,” he says. Almost a whisper. “When I got back from Hell—“

“When I brought you back,” I snap, perhaps harder than I should.

He laughs again. A little more like himself. “Right. Credit where credit's due. After Hell, I couldn't sleep, either. I mean, I could. Sometimes. But I had—“

“Nightmares,” I say. “Yes, I know.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hey, who's telling the story here? I’m trying be helpful. Also, let's keep mentions of your semi-creepy dreamwalking to a minimum, ok?”

“Sorry,” I say. Smiling.

“Ok then,” he huffs, settling back into the cushions. “So, nightmares, right? And there was awhile there where I didn't want to sleep. Didn't wanna know what I'd see.”

“Mmm,” I say, because it seems appropriate. 

He shuffles around a little and ends up with his shoulder soft into mine. Which is pleasant.

“So I didn't sleep at night. Or I tried not to. For weeks, it felt like. Don’t know really how long. 'Course, I had to sleep sometimes—”

“One would hope.”

That earns me a poke in the side and a little more of his shoulder. 

“Ha ha,” he says. “Seriously, you suck as a listener, Cas.”

“I've not had much occasion to practice,” I retort.

He whistles. “Wow, take the angel away and you're kinda of a dick, huh?”

“Says the guy who's stealing my blanket.”

“'M not stealing! It's fucking cold down here. Who let the fire go out?”

I get a fistful of afghan and yank, free it from under him and fling it over his chest. 

“Whining does not become you, Dean.”

He's too busy curling into the crochet to answer. He brings his shoulder right back to mine and leans. Our arms catch under the blanket and his fingers dig into the wool. He yawns right in my ear, then, which feels very odd. 

Then I yawn, my face split in time with his, which feels very—human.

“I, um. Sorry,” he mumbles. “Where was I?”

“You were not sleeping,” I prompt.

“Oh, right. So I didn't sleep at night for a while. And that seemed to do it, eventually. All those hours of staring at the clock. Pacing around at 3 AM. Helped me burn the worst of the memories away.”

He shudders, unbidden, and it only makes sense to twist my arm around him and hold.  
He does not object.

“But then, when I tried to sleep again, you know, like a normal person, it was as if my body had forgotten how. At least, in a warm bed with pillows and stuff. When you were supposed to go to sleep. And it was like, just the process of getting ready for sleep wound me right the fuck up. Make me nervous. Drove me away from drowsy, you know?“

“Mmm,” I say, again. 

He turns, slip his arm up. Pushes his hand into my chest and breathes deep.

“I was afraid,” he sighs. “Afraid of even trying to sleep. Because what if I couldn't? What was I supposed to do then?” 

“Yes,” I say. Relieved. “Yes, Dean. This is my problem, exactly. So what did you do? How did you solve this dilemma?”

I feel him smile in the hollow of my throat.

“Who says that I have?” he breathes.

His skin, warm under my palm. The blood beating there, blood that I poured back where it belonged. His heart whose beats I hear even in my sleep, his body that sings songs behind my eyes that I do not understand but, oh, how he makes me want to learn.

“I don't think you are being entirely honest with me,” I say into his hair. To myself.

He laughs, the sound ringing in my chest.

“What else is new?” he says. 

He fills his hands with my sweater. Grips me tight.

“Cas,” he rumbles. Hoarse. “This has gotta be pretty confusing for you, huh? The whole being human thing.”

“Not all of it,” I say, pulling his head back quick. Before I lose my nerve. “Not all of it, Dean. Not you.”

He's triumphant as I kiss him, entirely too pleased with himself, which is—unsurprising. So I slow down, lick the smirk from his lips until his mouth is open and shaking and he's digging fingerprints into my skin.

I pull back, or try to. Just to see his face. He's soft and tense and his cheek is hot under my palm.

"Jesus," he pants, battling to get his eyes open. "What the hell, Cas. You don't leave a guy hanging like that. Come on—" He fights me, a little, tries to yank my head down to his, but I do not give.

I may not be an angel, now. The strength of my Grace may be gone. There is much for which I should mourn. Much I have lost, that I have freely given. 

For this man. For this chance.

And damn if I'm not going to enjoy it.

"Shut up," I say, letting my lips drift over his chin. My teeth catch and he groans as if I've struck him. Groans, yes, but pushes himself into my hands. My mouth.

“Goddamn it,” he growls. “Kiss me already, you ass.”

“Is that any way to speak to an angel of the lord?” I say, my tongue over his jaw.

“No,” he manages, the words fighting their way out. “But lucky for me, you’re not. One of them. Don’t belong to anybody but me now, Cas.”

I moan, low in his throat. Bring his mouth back to mine. “Say that again.”

He squirms in my arms and slides a hand between my thighs. 

“Cas. You—you’re not one of them. Mine. You’re mine,” he gasps. “But you’re not gonna be if you don’t fucking kiss me, _jesus_ , you’re—”

I do kiss him, hard. Pull him into my lap and do it again. He shivers and works dark sweet words into my mouth. Shoves his hips in time with his tongue and lights me up tight. I wrap my hands around his ass and hold him still, then, rut against him and do not relent until he flips back and cries out, the afghan whipping behind him, and for a moment, he’s the one with the wings.

Then he flies right back, snarling, melts his hands to my shoulders and shoves his body into mine, his cock insistent against my thigh. He pants into my face and starts circling his hips, teasing, letting me feel him, rubbing against my cock but not enough, and _oh_ —

“Got a little more practice than you,” he smirks. “At this whole human thing. I mean, you’re a fast learner and all, but—”

He squeezes my waist with his knees and grinds and the noise that comes out of me borders on the unholy.

He just laughs, the son of a bitch, and does it again.

“Yeah, that’s right. Come on, Cas. Know you want to. Come on.”

I moan because I do. I do I do. 

He leans his head down, still twisting his hips, and breathes in my ear. “C’mon. Wanna feel you come, sweetheart. Gonna come for you, too, _fuck_ —I’m gonna—“

My hands find his flesh, catch his ribs in my palms, and he drives down, hard. And oh, yes. I can feel him spill, feel the heat of him blooming against me and I say:

“Yes, Dean. Yes, you’re—I can’t—“

He moans, his mouth sloppy on my cheek. “Come, damn it. C’mon.” I feel him smile, sudden wicked. “Come for me, Cas. Because I fucking _said_ , baby.”

My breath comes out in a rush, one big punch of air, and I do as he says, shoot sloppy through flannel and cotton and groan and he chuckles into my ear as I pant his name into the darkness.

“Yeah, that’s right. Good. You’re so good, sweetheart.”

I turn my head and kiss him, and not just to shut him up.

**

There’s much about being human that I still find confounding. Not the actions themselves, so much as the reasons behind them. The _why_ s. 

Why did he forgive me?

Why does he love me?

Why do I love him, in return?

There are no answers here, tangled between us in front of a drowsy fire.

For now, I think, none are needed. Or perhaps I am afraid to ask. Now that I have something to lose.

Dean, he buries his face in my sweater and breathes deep. The edges of dawn fall over his shoulders, drape him in light, and I cannot help but smile.

For the first time, I say thank you. To my brothers. My friends. My God. Whoever it was that decided I had earned this reward.

“Cas,” Dean sighs. “’S cold.”

“Yeah,” I say, turning breathless over his ear. “Let’s go to bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a friend's own struggles with insomnia and her beautiful, terrible descriptions of its effects.


End file.
